


I Sing The Song Because I Love the Man

by angelheadedhipster



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Flashbacks, M/M, Overdose, derogatory thoughts about the Blue Jackets, drug usage, mental health, sad boys in the snow, self medication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 22:17:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14222958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheadedhipster/pseuds/angelheadedhipster
Summary: The crazy thing is, that game almost didn’t even happen.Jack is not ok.





	I Sing The Song Because I Love the Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kirenamuln](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirenamuln/gifts).



> PLEASE look at the (vague and non spoilery tags) and see the note at the end if you are concerned at all.  
> Please let me know if it could be tagged in a more helpful way, too!
> 
> I wrote this in fall 2016, so thats when it takes place in Check Please continuity. Jack is on the Falconers, him and Bitty are dating but no one in Providence knows, etc.
> 
> Happy midnight, my darling hockey babe! I hope you like your thing. Thanks for dragging me into hockey hell with you!
> 
> Shoutout to the usual helpful loofah betas, as well as [make_em_scrum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/make_em_scrum/pseuds/make_em_scrum) and Mara for helping with some very specific knowledge.

The crazy thing is, that game almost didn’t even happen.

It was a bitterly cold night in Providence, and all through practice everyone had been aggressively watching the radar screens, wondering if it actually would snow. The coaches shooed them away from their phones, but they kept disappearing, too, checking in with the media department, the facilities crew.

Jack would text Eric at every update, inconclusive as they were. Eric had been ensconced in Jack’s apartment, secretly hoping that it would snow and the game wouldn’t happen. It was so cold outside, and so warm in Jack’s place. And he loved watching Jack play hockey and he knew Jack loved playing hockey, but if the game was cancelled, then the two of them could have holed up in Jack’s apartment, with the wind outside, and Eric could have made pumpkin scones and hot cocoa.

But the snow wasn’t going to start until 10pm and the game started at 8, and so Eric was in the stands, by himself in a seat that was near the family section, but not in it. The Falconers were playing the Blue Jackets, and the stadium was nowhere near full. Not a team like this, not a night as cold and stormy as this one.

Not that it matters to Jack. Every game for him was life and death, cold snowy nights and b-rate Ohio teams or not. Eric sits in the stands and watches Jack’s eyebrows through his visor, and the intensity of his eyes. His mouth never moves - not that Eric expects that, he’d been watching Jack Zimmermann play hockey for years now. And most of all, Eric watches Jack’s left knee.

Three weeks, and Jack insists the knee was healing just fine. Eric had been googling “PCL tears,” and “hyperextension,” and he’d watched the replay of the moment that Duncan Keith had rammed into Jack more times than he could count. Eric is not sure that it is healing fine.

 

_“It does hurt, I am not saying it doesn't.” Jack’s voice echoed in Eric’s headphones as he walked across campus. Eric was holding the phone out in front of him, slippery in the wool mittens Mama had made him._

_“It looks like it hurts, baby,” Eric said. “Are you sure-”_

_“It hurts, but I’ve had worse,” Jack continued, and his eyebrows had gone down. “In Juniors, I...well. Injuries happen.”_

_“That...doesn’t make me feel any better,” Eric said. He was at his class now, but he didn’t want to get off the phone._

_“I”m sorry, Bits,” Jack said. “I don’t want to worry you. I’ll be ok, I mean it.”_

_“Don’t worry about me worrying!” Eric said. “That’s...just be careful, ok? Do what the doctor tells you.”_

_“I am,” Jack said. “I’m taking exactly what they’ve told me.”_

_“Okay,” said Eric. “I have to go to class now,” and he paused, and there was that moment at the end of every conversation where he wanted to say “I love you,” but he didn’t._

_“Have a good class,” Jack said. “I’m ok.”_

_“Have a good practice,” Eric said._

 

The game is brutal from the get go. The Falconers shouldn’t be fighting this hard against a team like this, but nothing is going right. Tater gets a penalty for tripping, and the Blue Jackets score on the power play. And from that point on, every time the Falconers - Jack, then Marty - score, the Blue Jackets do, too. 

And Jack’s knee doesn’t look quite right. Maybe Eric is imagining it, he’s not an expert on knee alignment, but Jack does not seem to be skating quite as...evenly as he usually is. Eric is an expert on Jack Zimmermann skating, at least.

 

_“It’s fun to watch you skate, honey,” Eric said, lounging on Jack’s bed, leaning against pillows as Jack puttered around getting ready for bed._

_“You don’t have to say that,” said Jack. “I”m sorry you came all this way and I had to be so late at practice.”_

_“Not at all!” Eric said, and he meant it. “Watching you skate...I’ve always liked doing that. Even before I liked anything else about you, I knew that.”_

_Jack paused in the bathroom doorway, and he caught Eric’s eye, a frankly dopey grin on his face._

_“I like watching you skate, too, Bits,” he said. “Let me just take this and I’ll be there, ok?”_

_He popped open a pill canister, took two small white circles out, and swallowed them with a glass of water. Walking over to the bed, he still had that grin._  

_“I see how it is, making me wait, Mister Zimmermann,” Eric said, a grin spreading up his face. “Come over here and I’ll show you what else I like about you.”_

 

It happens most of the way through the third period. The game is a grinding, messy thing to watch, and Eric can only imagine what it feels like to be playing. Jack’s eyebrows have gotten lower and lower, and his eyes look...Eric doesn’t like the way his eyes look at all.

Jack has the puck, and he’s gliding across the ice toward the the Jackets’ goal, looking like some sort of floating magical skating bird, as he always does. Tater blocks a Jacket d-man, and there’s what looks to be a clear shot - their goalie is on the other side of the net, scrambling to get back. Eric can picture Jack’s face as he takes the shot, eyebrows down, lips pursed. At the last second though, there’s the tiniest, tiniest bit of a wobble, to the right...and the shot doesn’t go in.

The crowd makes a clearly deflated noise, and there’s only five minutes left of the period. The atmosphere, which has not been great all game, gets nasty. Eric can hear boos around him, and even, and this makes his little Southern heart go cold, a few yells and boos that are followed by “Ya fucked up, Zimmermann!" 

“Get it in the net, asshole!” says a voice uncomfortably close to Eric’s right. Eric whips around, ready to shoot stone Beyonce shade at whoever said it, but people are moving around now, and he can’t tell where it came from. The fans are starting to clear out, it looks like

Eric looks for Jack, on the ice. He’s still skating, the play is still going, and Eric can’t see his face.

“Jack, honey, it's not your fault,” Eric says, under his breath. His thumb opens Twitter on his phone, but he can’t think of what he wants to tell the world about this moment. Nothing, really.

 

_“Did you tweet your whole train journey here, Bits?” Jack grinned at him as he got into the car. “I stopped checking when I got in the car to get you.”_

_“My public likes to be kept updated,” Eric said, loftily. “And Amtrak needs to know how poorly they’re treating their customers!.”_

_“I’m just glad you’re here,” Jack said, sliding into the driver’s seat. He looked around furtively at the train station around them, and before Eric could figure out why, he had one hand on the cupholder between them - his hand on a pill bottle, a pack of sugar free gum, and a water bottle - and the other on Eric’s shoulder. Jack kissed him, quick and light on the lips. Less than a second later his hands were back on the wheel and they were pulling out of the parking lot, and Jack’s face had ‘hockey robot’ all over it, but his eyes were twinkling._

 

Jack actually plays beautifully the rest of the game. All his passes connect, he’s fast and sure on his feet. He sees exactly where the puck is a split second before anyone else, and Eric can tell his stick handling is impeccable. But the tide doesn't turn, and the Falconers are still grinding it out with nothing good happening. The buzzer sounds, and for Eric it's a relief. Watching has been too painful. 3-2, Blue Jackets.

Eric has pretty much timed how long it takes after a game ends for the team to get back to the locker rooms, through showers and cool down, and free enough to look at their phones. Jack, he privately thinks, is slower about this process than he could be - Eric is back on his phone less than 15 minutes after a game ends, thank you very much.

He knows Jack won't have his phone on him yet, but he can't help calling. He’s worried, honestly.  He calls three times, waiting through the rings and hanging up when he hears Jack's voice, awkward and stuttered, start to say "This is, eh, Jack Zimmermann." Eric looks at the clock on his phone. Jack should be just getting into the locker room now. He calls again.

No answer.

 

_“Ok, honey, so you'll call me when you get to the locker rooms, right?” They were in the apartment, the television on mute turned to the Weather Channel, waiting to see whether that night’s game would be snowed out. “I mean, assuming that the game happens.”_

_“I think it will,” Jack said. “And yes, I will call you, of course.” They were lying next to each other in bed, hands just barely touching. Jack turned his head just slightly, allowing him to meet Eric’s eyes._

_“Thanks,” Eric said. He felt so warm here, in this apartment, with Jack looking at him like that. He just wanted to last here forever. Maybe there wouldn’t be a game, and he could roll around in Jack’s bed and bake him some cherry tarts..._  

_Eric stretched, the warmth and happiness so pure that he felt like it was filling him up. His hand hit the nightstand on his right, and there was a clattering noise. “Oh, I’m sorry!” Eric said. Two orange pill bottles had fallen over, and an expensive looking alarm clock. “Wait, let me-”_

_“It’s fine,” Jack said. His hand stroked down Eric’s hip where his shirt had ridden up as he stretched. “I have to leave for the game in only twenty minutes, and I think there are a few more things we need to do…”_

_Eric rolled away from the night stand, into Jack’s waiting arms._

 

By now the stadium has emptied out, people moving out into the bitterly cold night. The snow is whirling around dramatically, swirling white through the dark sky; he can see it out the doors. It would be pretty, Eric thinks, if he could think about that right now.

He tries Jack again. Nothing.

He's been pacing the aisles, and there's no one around him, so he goes down towards the locker room. Usually they try to be careful, not make it so obvious that Bittle is always there, but he’s too worried to care now. He wants to get to Jack as fast as possible, he wants to be there as soon he comes out, to tell him that it's ok. He knows what Jack is like when he loses. When the team loses, Eric corrects himself, and isn't that the problem. The Falconers lost tonight, the whole team, but he knows that Jack will blame himself, and the goal that didn't go in. Eric just wants to tell him that it wasn't his fault, that he played beautifully. He's worried and he can't quite say why.

He calls again, and he's close enough to the locker room that he imagines he could hear the phone ringing, even though he can't. Jack finally, finally, picks up.

"Bitty," Jack says, and Eric feels a swooping relief

"Jack! Oh gosh, baby, are you ok?" 

" _Je vais bien, je vais bien_ ," Jack says. Eric thinks that might have been French?

"What now, honey? I don't understand."

"I'm fine," Jack says. He sounds off, somehow. His voice is deeper than usual, or maybe the words are coming out slower.

"That was a brutal game, I'm so sorry," Eric says.

"Yeah," Jack says, and then there's a pause.

"But you played really well, overall," Eric says. "And I know that it hurts right now -"

"Not really," Jack says. "It doesn't hurt." His words are definitely coming out slower, Eric thinks. He might even be slurring them, as if he's drunk or something. But Eric has NEVER heard Jack that drunk 

"Oh. Um, okay," Eric says. "Are you alright? Where are you, I'll come meet you."

"I'm okay," says Jack. "I'm okay, I've got to think about practice though."

"What?"

"I've got to go, I've got practice."

"What are you saying, baby, the game just ended, how do you have practice?"

"Yeah, I've got to get to Faber," Jack says. "I, uh, I've got to go."

"Faber? What are you talking about, Jack?" Eric is freaking out now. Jack sounds completely different, his words are slow and mushy, and nothing he says makes sense.

"It's ok,  _ça va, ça va._ I'll see you later, I'm going to practice now," Jack says.

 "Jack, you're scaring me. Where are you, I'll come find you."

"Don't be scared. Everything is ok," Jack says. "I'm going to practice now, I'll see you at Faber." He sounds completely flat, but he doesn't sound upset. Eric has no idea what's happening.

“HONEY, I-”

And then there's a beep, and the call ends.

Eric waits where he is, bouncing on his toes, for half an hour, but Jack never appears. He knows there are several exits and entrances to the team area, so all he can think that Jack may have left a different way. And not told him? That isn't right at all. He isn't picking his phone up anymore. Eric is starting to really, really worry.

Maybe Jack is waiting for him by the car? They've never set things up that way, in all the games Eric's come to, but maybe.

He walks to the parking area, and Jack's truck is still there, but Jack isn't. Which doesn't explain anything, at all.

He calls again. Jack doesn't answer. If Eric never hears that "This is, eh," again in his life, it will be too soon.

Eric walks back into the stadium, because he can't think of anywhere else to go, or anything else to do. He needs to find Jack, and he doesn't even have a car. He's staring at his phone, trying to think of what his next option might possibly be, when he runs straight into Georgia.

"Eric?" she says. "Eric Bittle?"

"Yeah, uh, hi!" Eric says brightly, because he's startled and 'brightly' is his default way of talking.

"We met, when I visited Jack-"

"Yeah, I remember," Eric says. He wants her to move, to leave, even though he doesn't know what else he would be doing right now 

"You came for the game?" she asks.

"Uh, yeah," Eric says. "Um, have you seen Jack? I...He's not answering his phone, we were supposed to meet up, and..." Eric trails off, well aware of how insane this sounds. What is he doing here, what has happened to Jack.

Georgia nods. "Yeah, I saw him walk out the back entrance."

"Walk?" It's 10 degrees out, max. It's snowing.

"I was surprised, too!" Georgia says, and she chuckles a bit. "He had a coat on, but not even a hat. Canadians, I guess, right?"

"Did he say where he was walking to?"

"Oh, we didn't really talk," Georgia says. "He looked very determined, so whatever it was must be important, I guess. He was headed towards Brown's campus, I think."

"Oh," Eric says, and he can hear how small his voice sounds.

"Do you need a ride somewhere, or anything?" Georgia asks. She's looking at him more closely now, and that's not what Eric wants, at all 

"No, no, I'll...I think I know where he is," Eric says. "But thank you, ma'am." Ma'am. He must really be upset, that's when his manners are always at their best.

"Ok, Eric," she says. "But let us know if you need anything, all right?"

"Of course, yes, ma'am," he says, and cringes at himself. "I'm okay, thank you."

He is okay, Eric thinks as he walks through the stadium towards the back entrance, but Jack isn't. Jack is not okay.

 

_It ended up being 12 stitches on Jack’s chin, which to Eric was yes, “too many.”_

_“It doesn’t hurt now, though, don’t worry,” Jack said. “I’m totally fine.”_

  _Eric trailed his finger along Jack’s jaw line, feeling the roughness of the stubble there, stopped before he got to the bandage._

  _“I'm fine,” Jack said. “I promise.”_

 

The thought keeps bouncing around his head as he walks, like he's counting the rhythm of his steps to it the way they do in speed drills sometimes. _Jack is not okay._

He's outside now, and it's so cold. The snow is really coming down, it's probably almost an inch thick now. Eric pulls his hat down over his ears, and tries not to think of Jack telling him to pull it down against the cold.

_Jack is not okay._

He crunches through the snow, leaving footprints. He's not dressed for this - he wore loafers, because he was going to a hockey game, not trekking through a blizzard.

Jack is not okay.

 

_“Was that okay?” Jack’s face, hovering over him._

_Eric panted, his heart still racing. He could feel his entire body twitching, the sweat on his skin cooling, the air almost cold as it ran over his naked body._

_“Are you kidding, sweetie, that was…” Eric grinned at him. “That was better than the first time I made an apple pie.”_

_Jack laughed, loud, his whole face lighting up._

 

Providence is hilly, and it seems like it is all uphill, completely uphill, once he's on Brown's campus. He's panting as he climbs, and he can feel his legs starting to protest. He doesn't feel any warmer though.

Jack is not okay.

Eric keeps looking at his phone, hoping that Jack has called back. "Sorry, Bits, I'm outside with the car, want me to come get you?" he'd say, and Eric would be righteously angry with him.

There are no calls though. Just Twitter notifications from the Falcs Official twitter - “A hard fought game, good work Falconers #PVDvsCBJ” - and the Samwell group chat. He briefly looks at that one, to see if maybe, just maybe, Jack is in there, but it's only condolences and some half assed jokes from Holster. His phone is dying in the cold, the battery wearing out and the screen jilting, and his hands are too cold to tap the screen. He puts his gloves on, and puts his phone inside his jacket, hoping the warmth will revive it some.

 

_Me: Baby that game was tough. Did Parse mess with you at all?_

_Jack Hockey: Nah, he was okay. Just a tough game._

_Me: Do you want to talk tonight?_

_Jack Hockey: You should study tonight. I’m okay, I promise._

 

“George V. Meehan Auditorium,” in maroon letters overhead, as Eric stomps the snow off his loafers and walks in. The door looks like its been wrenched open, like the lock wasn’t particularly strong to begin with and someone pulled the door open in a hurry. But there’s nothing Eric can do about that now. The building has that empty rink feel, all echoing hallways and half-lit fluorescent lights.

Practice, Jack had said. Practice at the college rink.

There is the familiar _schuss-schuss_ of someone skating in the rink, Eric can hear it as he gets closer. And then a clatter, and a pause. _Schuss-schuss_ again.

“Jack!” Eric is running now, stumbling towards the entrance to the ring. “Jack. Jack, oh honey.”

Jack slides to the edge of the rink, towards the gate. He wobbles as he nears the edge, unsteady, and clutches the boards. Eric has never seen him look that uncoordinated in the three years they’d known each other. His head droops for a second, and he almost looks like he’s going to fall down. But then his head picks up again, and he looks at Eric.

“Hey, Bits,” Jack says. “What are you doi…” he trails off, his mouth open but no sounds coming out.

Jack’s eyes are big and blue - he isn't wearing a helmet, just his Falcs jersey and warmup pants and skates. He looks younger, and softer. Eric wants to be happy about that, but his eyes...Jack’s pupils are gone, tiny. His face is pale, and his breathing is low and raspy, and slow.

“You look so cute,” Jack says. He reaches his hand from the siding to pet Eric’s hair, fluffing his forehead.

“Jack, what’s...what did you take- _ow-_ ”

Jack’s hand was gripping Eric’s hair, and then it slid off his head because Jack is sliding down, onto the ice. He falls gracelessly, as if all the fight just went out of him, as if the iron rod of determination that was the core of Jack Zimmerman being has been removed and without it he is hollow, just skin and a hockey jersey. Eric reaches for him, manages to catch his elbow and slow the fall, but Jack doesn’t respond at all. He hits the ice with a merciless thump.

“Oh my god, Jack, oh my god,” Eric is babbling now, though it is clear Jack isn't hearing anything. “Baby. Baby, come back to me. Jack!”

Eric tears off Jack’s gloves and feels his hand - cold, but not that cold. There is a pulse in his wrist, he is sure of it, but its so slow, and it doesn’t seem steady. He pinches the wrist, prods it, screams - nothing. Jack isn’t there 

His phone is dying, but it's not dead as Eric fumbles with the buttons 

“911, what is the address of your emergency?”

“It's my-my friend,” Eric stammers, and it is so ridiculous that in this of all moments he won't say ‘boyfriend’ to a stranger, won't refer to NHL star Jack Zimmerman that way.

“What happened to them?”

“He, he…” Eric swallows and says the word, the word he hasn't even let himself think until now, the word that has been flitting at the edges of his mind all night, maybe even for weeks now, though he wouldn't let himself see it. “He overdosed, I think.”

“What is the address?”

“Meehan rink, I...I don't know the address. It's on Brown's campus”

There is a pause and a clacking noise through the phone.

“I've got help on the way,” said the operator. “The police and an ambulance.”

Police, oh god. Oh no.

“Is he breathing?” The 911 operator is still talking. “Try to-”

And then there's nothing. Eric looks in his hand - his phone has died. Black screen.

Eric's hands are shaking now, he can feel his own breath getting short, coming in gasps. Eric slides down to sit on the floor and he realizes his face is wet, he's crying. He is still holding Jack's hand. He can't let go.

Eric stares across the ice.  There's a red clock on the scoreboard, big digital numbers. There’s nowhere else to look. 11:59. 12:00. He thinks he might hear sirens.

**Author's Note:**

> ARCHIVE WARNINGS: In this fic, a character passes out from what is heavily implied to be an overdose of prescription medication (in this case, both painkillers and anti anxiety medication). It is left ambiguous as to whether the character survives.
> 
> Also, the title is a lil inside reference for myself - its from "The Needle and the Damage Done," everyone's favorite song about drug abuse.
> 
> oh and here's me on [tumblr](http://neonapologist.tumblr.com/)


End file.
